Part 1: The Reluctant Executioner

 

Chapter 1: The Executioner

 

The executioner hesitated.

 

No matter how many times he did this, he always hesitated. Beyond the door were two men who would die in just a few hours. He was going to end their lives with a splash of blood and the cheers of an adoring crowd. When it came time to perform, there would be no hesitation, no mercy. For now, the executioner stared at the door.

 

He took a long, deep breath. If it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. Someone who didn’t care about anything more than putting on a show. Someone who would revel in the job and torment them in their last moments. Someone who would live up to the name of the Butcher. He exhaled.

 

The door opened up to the holding cells. A few oil lamps cast a dim, flickering light in the small room. Four cages lined the back wall. There was a crate with clothes for the prisoners and a shelf with a few battered old books and the keys. Two guards sat at a table, playing cards.

 

Upon seeing the executioner enter they set their cards down and stood. “Butcher,” they murmured respectfully, with no small amount of unease.

 

The executioner gave them a nod. He stepped past them and stopped in front of the cells. The man on his left was older, graying, and haggard from his time in captivity. To his right, the prisoner was tanned, wiry, and in the prime of his life. The old man remained seated, but the wiry man got to his feet and slammed his hand against the bars.

 

“Is this supposed to scare us?” he demanded. With his long, messy dark hair and grey eyes, he might have been handsome on the outside. The cells had a way of taking that away. Four days of patchy scruff covered his face, and his clothes had been taken away and replaced with rags.

 

The question threw him. The executioner was easily the largest man in the room. The black chitin armor he wore gave him some added bulk, but his bare white arms were thick with muscle and covered in scars. His helmet was like his armor, an Orchrisan Legion officers’, save for his ornate mask. A grinning skull leered back at the prisoners, as ghastly white as his exposed skin.

 

“Yes,” he said. “The Emperor likes it when the condemned suffer before the end. It’s not my choice.” His voice was surprisingly soft, though it was distorted by the mask and came out like a hiss.

 

“If you think I’m scared, you’re a fool,” he snarled, baring his teeth. His fingers gripped the bars until they went white. Realization hit him. “Wait. Condemned?”

 

“Oh, he didn’t know,” said the old man from his cot. There was no fear in his voice. There wouldn’t be after this long. “You poor bastard.”

 

“Good evening Horace,” the executioner greeted with a respectful nod.

 

“Butcher,” Horace returned the nod with a weary smile.

 

There was silence again while the executioner chose his words carefully and the wiry prisoner’s eyes darted around. Even after ten years of service, speaking didn’t come easily for the executioner. This was the hardest part of the job by far.

 

“You’re not from Orchrisus. What’s your name? Where are you from?”

 

He didn’t think he would get an answer. Another slam of the bars or more threats, maybe, but not an answer. The executioner was pleasantly surprised when the prisoner said, “Antonio. Antonio Brechen. From Finsk.”

 

The executioner nodded. “You’re a long way from home, Antonio. I’m afraid the laws are not always kind to foreigners here. You were found guilty of three counts of murder. One of which -- “

 

“They were cheating!” Antonio seethed. “Those bastards were trying to rob me. I caught them at it, and the barkeep stood and did nothing!”

 

Horace let out a dark chuckle. “Welcome to Orchrisus.”

 

The executioner glanced at Horace. The old man shut up. “I believe you. Had you just beat them half to death, we wouldn't be here. Fights happen. The Watch looks the other way. A man has a duty to stand up for himself. But you didn't. You killed three men in front of dozens of witnesses.”

 

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” Antonio protested weakly. “Let them cheat me?”

 

He didn’t blame Antonio. In a city like Orchrisus, there were always thieves. Especially on the outskirts, where traders and travelers stopped for a respite from the endless desert. There was no shortage of bad men in Orchrisus. Antonio’s story was one of at least a dozen each year. No matter how much the executioner felt for him, he had a job to do.

 

“I understand. You were in a shit situation, and there was no way out that would've been acceptable. Doesn't change anything. You killed three men, Antonio Brechen of Finsk. I'm afraid that means you were sentenced to be executed, to be carried out tonight by my hand.”

 

“Wait, what?” Antonio’s eyes widened. He backed away from the bars, as if the distance would somehow protect him. “They throw me in here and just decide to kill me? Where's the justice in that!?”

 

The executioner sighed. “There were thirty people who saw you stab three men to death before you were subdued. The Arbiter assigned to your case determined there was no need for a full trial.” 

 

The poor bastard probably hadn’t been told any of this. There was a very real chance that they’d locked him up, decided his sentence, and sent him straight here without any explanation. Guilt stirred in the executioner. He buried it, like he’d done time and again.

 

“I don’t know how executions are done in Finsk,” the executioner pressed on, not unkindly. “Here in Orchrisus, you will be brought upstairs to the arena. From there, you have two choices. You can go willingly, and I will make it as quick and painless as I can.”

 

“Piss on that.” Antonio let out a desperate, nearly hysterical laugh.

 

“Or you could fight,” said Horace, getting to his feet. He looked through the bars at Antonio with something like pity. “If you kill the Butcher here, you win your freedom. They prefer it when you fight. It puts on a show for the people, and they get to bet on how long before you die.”

 

Antonio looked between the two of them. After a second, the meaning sunk in. “How many people have earned their freedom?”

 

“Eleven,” said the executioner. “You lose nothing by trying.” Any other prisoner, he would’ve known their crime, their life, and exactly how to entice them to fight. Their files told him everything he needed to know to get their cooperation, and to provide what mercies he could. He should’ve known Antonio Brechen better. Gods, he hated when the courts rushed men to their deaths.

 

“Eleven,” Antonio echoed, his expression unreadable. Many prisoners put on a fierce mask when facing him. No one wanted to show weakness or fear in front of him. His dark eyes darted up and down the executioner, as if only just now noticing how large and imposing he really was. Some of his fire faded, and then it was the executioner’s turn to worry.

 

Two compliant executions would make for a terrible showing. Amicus would blame the executioner for it and spend the next month breathing down his neck. The executioner’s fists clenched. He took a chance.

 

 “We have your belongings,” said the executioner. “If you would like, you may use your knife. If you were able to take on three men and win…”

 

Antonio’s brow furrowed. Half a minute passed before the prisoner’s jaw set and indecision gave way to determination. “I’ll fight.”

 

Horace laughed. Weak at first, and then picking up volume until his thin body trembled. “Eleven. Eleven in fifty years, and they just keep...They give you what you want every time. Is that what it's going to take, Butcher? Will you only kill me when I say I'll fight you?” The laughter tapered off into a strangled sob.

 

The executioner couldn’t imagine having to wait that long. Waiting to be put to death, waiting for someone to come in and tell him that his time was up. For weeks Horace watched the executioner kill man after man through the window in his cell. It wasn’t right. The executioner was many things, but cruel was not one of them. He shook his head.

 

“No, Horace. Tonight is the night. You won’t have to wait any longer.”

 

Horace opened his mouth, but no words came out. The laughter disappeared, replaced by something between fear and relief. A month in the cells, and he’d never looked as old as he did now. He let out a long, shuddering breath. 

 

“Thank the gods,” Horace whispered.

 

“I’m sorry you had to wait this long, Horace. Your advocate really fought for you.”

 

Horace snorted. “Bullshit. He didn't want a loss on his record. Bastard.”

 

The executioner smiled behind his mask. He nodded to each of them in turn. “I’ll make the arrangements. You have three hours until it’s time. A priest of the Darkstar will be in shortly, to administer the rites and record your last wishes and confessions.”

 

He’d already turned to walk out of the room when Antonio called out, “What about you? Will you talk to a priest? Will you confess? I will earn my freedom. No matter what.”

 

The executioner didn’t turn around. “No. I’m already damned.”

Watching people trip over themselves to get out of his way hurt. People were unafraid, if cold, when the mask was off. He spent most days without the mask and the executioner’s co-workers tolerated his presence. Gladiators and slaves alike would acknowledge him with a nod, then go back to pretending like he wasn’t there. He’d still sit alone in the dining hall, but it would be close enough to catch snippets of conversation. It was almost like belonging.

 

With the mask on it meant that he was no longer the solemn, quiet man they’d known for the past fifteen years. There was only the Butcher. Merciless, bloodthirsty, and a grim reminder that when the normal fights ended, people would die.

 

The executioner wound his way through the Colosseum’s underbelly. A path cleared for him in the locker room, raucous banter fading to nothing. He felt the weight of their eyes on him as he continued on to the next hallway. The moment he was out of sight, conversation resumed. It was like bringing a bubble of silence with him.

 

His office was the only respite from the discomfort. It was a modest, small space without much adorning the walls. There was a desk, a comfortable chair for him and two wicker chairs for guests. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, dimly casting enough light to read by. A sword hung on the wall behind him. It was mostly for decoration, but it never hurt to be prepared. There were no paintings or anything personal in the office, unless one counted a cabinet containing handwritten records of the people he executed. 

 

There was no need for anything more.

 

One of the Colosseum’s slaves was already there, bent over his desk. The majority of it was taken over by a massive silver platter, packed to capacity with fresh food. Kebabs, tender lamb, and even smoked grubs were on display in the center. They were surrounded by fresh fruits and vegetables in a ring around the edge. It was more than the executioner could eat in two days.

 

The short, mousy slave jumped to her feet. She kept her eyes firmly locked on the ground. She held the lid to the platter, and her face was reddening more by the second. The executioner nodded and moved past her. He took his seat.

 

“Thank you, Giselle. Bring me two bottles of mead, and the special draught. Then send him in. Oh, one more thing,” he said before she could scurry away. 

 

“When we’re done here, I request that you and...Pick a friend of yours. When we’re done, you two will be on clean up. I expect it to take a while, and for there to be few leftovers. Understand?”

 

Giselle risked looking up to stare him in the face. She flinched, but nodded, making the chain links around her neck jingle. She murmured a thanks and took off out the door, letting the lid clatter to the ground. The executioner sighed, but stood and put it over the food.

 

Half an hour later, the door opened once more and Horace was led in by a guard. The guard stopped at the doorway. He shoved the older man in. Giselle darted in, arms full with the bottles. She set them down and got out just as quickly. The door slammed shut, leaving the two men alone.

 

“Have a seat, Horace.” The executioner rolled up the scroll he’d been reading and put it back in the cabinet.

 

Horace narrowed his eyes but did as he was told. “What’s this, then?”

 

The executioner lifted the lid. The smell of succulent meats and fresh bread nearly bowled the prisoner over. Horace’s eyes bulged at the feast. The executioner set the lid on the ground, and opened the two bottles of mead. “A last mercy. You’ve been through a lot. I can’t give you your life, but I can give you this.”

 

His statement wasn’t met with the enthusiasm the executioner had come to expect from the pre-death feast. Instead, Horace slumped in his seat. “You...I appreciate this. But I was guilty. I am guilty. I deserve this death. You understand that, right?”

 

“Yes,” said the executioner, “I understand. You’ve been a model prisoner. You made a mistake, and you accept the consequences. That’s worth something.” He undid the chinstrap of his helmet, and pulled it off.

 

He wasn’t deformed, exactly. That always came as a surprise to the people he invited for a final meal. The executioner’s skin was as white as marble. His cropped hair and sharp eyebrows were a light, off-white blonde. The only hint of color was in his eyes, somewhere between icy blue and lavender. He had severe, hawkish features marred with scars and a crooked nose too large for his face. He set the helmet down on the last empty spot on the desk, facing away from the prisoner.

 

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were already damned,” Horace said, gaping.

 

The executioner’s teeth clenched.

 

“You’re moon-”

 

“Albino,” the executioner snapped, soft voice turning harsh. “The gods had nothing to do with this.”

 

Horace flinched, then nodded slowly. The executioner relaxed. He set a bottle of mead in front of Horace. He lifted his up, waiting.

 

The old man grabbed the bottle and raised it up. “To my health?” In spite of himself, the executioner chuckled. They clinked bottles and drank. 

 

Horace wasted no time in grabbing a kebab and tearing into it. A handful of grapes followed. The executioner sat back and waited patiently. He didn’t have to wait long. Time in captivity shrunk one’s stomach, and Horace had been thin before being imprisoned. Once he slowed down, the executioner helped himself to some lamb and a handful of pomegranate seeds.

 

“So,” Horace started, then paused to finish chewing and swallow, “do you normally share a meal with people you’re about to kill?”

 

“Some.” He shrugged. “Mostly the ones who want it quick and quiet. Getting a potential fighter full and drunk makes for a bad showing.” The executioner took a swig of mead.

 

Horace’s hand froze halfway to his mouth. “I can’t argue with that logic, but that seems a little...Calculating. You don’t really strike me as the type to be that cold.”

 

The executioner raised an eyebrow. “What makes you say that? Before now, I was just a faceless killer.”

 

That earned him a short, harsh bark of laughter. “And now you’re not,” Horace gave him a crooked smile. “If you were what you seemed, then you wouldn’t be feeding me and drinking with me. You might be known as the Butcher, but that doesn’t really fit you, does it? Who are you?”

 

It was hard to not immediately avert his gaze. The executioner lasted ten seconds before his eyes darted to his helmet, itching to put it back on. He took a deep breath. He was in control here.

 

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll answer that, if you answer a question of mine.”

 

Horace took another long drink of mead. He leaned back in the chair and shrugged. “Ask away, Butcher.”

 

“Why?” The question had been eating at him for months. “Why did you do it? You had a comfortable, well respected job. You had a daughter. Why did you throw it all away?”

 

Horace didn’t answer right away. He popped another grape in his mouth and mulled it over. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Money.”

 

“On come on,” the executioner scoffed. “You worked for the courts. They pay decently well. And if you were coerced, they’d protect you.”

 

Horace shook his head, laughing bitterly. “Not from debtors. My daughter fell in love. I had a wedding and a dowry to pay for. So I went to a lender. When I couldn’t pay it back fast enough, I got threatened. When that didn’t get them the money any faster, she got threatened. So, someone offered me an out. Enough money to pay off my debts and set my Lucia up, should I get caught. 

 

“Well, I got caught, and here we are.” Horace gestured to the room.

 

It made sense. The executioner had done the job long enough to know that almost everyone had their price. People did stupid things out of greed, then it was on him to provide the consequences of their actions. “Who offered you the money?”

 

“Please,” Horace scoffed. “I didn’t tell the arbiters and I’m not gonna tell you either, no matter how much food or drink you get in me. They kept to their word. Lucia and any children she has will be comfortable. That’s all that matters.” Horace raised the bottle in a mock toast.

 

“Was it worth it, then?” the executioner leaned forward, lips pursed. “Your daughter will have money, but she loses you.”

 

At that, Horace faltered. The bottle in his hand trembled. He set it down. For the first time since arriving at the Colosseum, he looked close to breaking down. He swallowed hard.

 

“That’s the real punishment, isn’t it? I’m not afraid of dying, Butcher. I’ve earned this death.” He shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “Lucia will start a family of her own, but I won’t get to see it.”

 

The executioner nodded, but said nothing. What else was there to say? He finished his bottle and set it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and relaxed, enjoying the tiniest bit of swimming in his head. Horace wasn’t content to sit in silence.

 

“I gave you your answer, now I want mine. Who are you?”

 

“I’m…” The executioner paused. “My name’s Quentin. I’m not...I didn’t try to get this job. I worked in the infirmary, at first. I used to stitch up the gladiators after fights and training.” His eyes went distant. 

 

“One day, someone picked a fight with me. People used to always pick at me. It comes with…” He gestured at himself.

 

“People are bastards,” said Horace.

 

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I fought back. I laid him out. A friend of his jumped in, and I laid him out too. Then three more of his friends joined in.”

 

“Did you lay them out too?” Horace grinned.

 

“No, they beat the piss out of me.” Horace’s surprised, genuine laughter made him smile. The executioner took another grape. “But it wasn’t like...It was more of a draw than them winning. It got me noticed by the owner of the Colosseum.”

 

“Then he made you the Butcher?”

 

“No, that’s when I - ” 

 

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. The executioner grabbed his helmet and hastily put it on. “Enter,” he called.

 

The door opened a crack, and Giselle’s face peeked through. “She’s here,” the slave said.

 

“Thank you. I’ll be out in a moment. Close the -“ 

 

The door closed before he could finish his sentence. He sighed. The executioner stood up, strapping his helmet on properly. He fished keys out of the desk and locked the cabinet. The sword he took off the wall and strapped to his belt.

 

“Hold up a minute,” Horace protested, “I’m going to die soon. You can’t leave off mid-story like that! I need to know.”

 

The executioner smiled behind his mask. “You’ll appreciate the company more than my story. Trust me.”

 

Horace’s brows furrowed in confusion, then realization hit him. He turned toward the door. “You don’t mean…”

 

“You’ll have an hour. On the desk is a bottle. It will dull your senses. When you’re done here, drink it. It will make your death painless. It’s all I can do for you.”

 

He walked to the door. Before he reached it Horace said, “Thank you. Quentin.” The executioner’s chest tightened. He nodded, and opened the door. Outside was a guard and, he presumed, Lucia. 

 

Seeing him, she blanched. He stepped past her and stood next to the guard. Seeing her father, Lucia let out a cry and ran to him. She threw her arms around him as he stood, nearly bowling him over into the half empty platter of food. Tears streamed down the old man’s face.

 

The executioner nodded once more. The guard closed the door and stood in front of it, leaning on his spear. He kept his eyes down, like everyone else in the colosseum. Sometimes, the executioner couldn’t help but take it personally.

 

“When they’re done in there and you go to search him, be gentle. I don’t want to see any bruises that weren’t there before he went in. Understood?” On the other hand, it took no effort to be taken seriously.

 

The guard’s expression hardened, but he didn’t look up. “Yes, Butcher.”

 

He spared one last glance at his office before he turned around to make the uncomfortable trek back through the underside of the colosseum. Soon, he would have to kill Horace. For the time being, the executioner could consider him a friend. At least, he thought, he could be a friend to Horace. The last one he would ever have.